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THE MEDITERRANEAN COAST
the horse is made ready for battle but victory belongs to the lord
– proverb
SHRILLS OF AGONY AND GROANS of pain shattered the stillness of the land. The atmosphere thickened with cold despair as a grim shade of grey cast over the clear skies. Strong winds howled and swept in every direction as if trying to discern order amidst the brutal chaos. The mountains reclining on the horizon were obscured by vast forests of trees surrounding the outer fringes, whilst the battleground, the heart of the extensive plains, bore the remains of barren grass and arid sand.
Only the sands were no longer dry, gaudy scarlet flowing over scorched earth like streams of blood.
Pitch-black eyes observed the carnage from a distance as more cavalrymen are wiped out by a unit of skillful archers, followed by swift attacks from both the western and eastern fronts. Hussam knew the ambush wouldn't go unanswered, so he waited with unrivaled patience whilst absentmindedly tightening the reins of his beast in anticipation.
A fog lurked ahead and ominous clouds gathered as the roar of charging men drew closer, the earth trembling with terror.
Suddenly, a lone arrow pierced through the air and bolted past the foot soldiers on the defense toward enemy lines.
The sharp steel held one name and hunted its target like a crazed serpent. With uncanny speed, Hussam captured the arrow in mid-flight—a hairs breadth away—before it could strike between his eyes.
Rage simmered in his veins that threatened to erupt at the audacious attempt of their foe. Hurling the accursed weapon aside, with a menacing growl he ordered, "Draw!" His archers assumed their offensive positions once more as he bellowed, "Aim!" Just as the defense draw close enough the command comes just as fast, "Release!"
Endless rounds are shot following every order, obliterating the footsoldiers. Seconds later, the Qaysi knights bombard their adversaries in a ceaseless fire, showering debris from all sides as the men become cannon fodder. All that remains of the air is dust and rubble.
Hussam glances to his right where his companion Aabid stood, blade in hand, waiting for a final signal. With a curt nod, Hussam nudges his horse on the underside of its belly and the beast broke out into a sprint. It takes all of seconds. Fueled by vengeance and the company of his sword, he vanished alongside his men amid the spiral of brutality.
His sword, a sacred gift, is a refined steel that slightly curves at the edge. It snaps into bones and sinew like twigs, severing limbs from bodies and slicing through flesh like ripe tangerines. It's nectar—a bitter, crimson rage.
